


One-Way Van Hire

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Experienced Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Humor and Smut, Footnotes, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Light Dom/sub, Love Confessions, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Masturbation, Multi, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Submissive Crowley (Good Omens), Vulvas for Everyone!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 04:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19900093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: Aziraphale dips into the mousse again. “I suppose we could adjourn to the bookstore after we’re through here. I haven’t even checked the shelves yet!”Crowley summons his best Aziraphale impression. “It’s all tickety-boo.”“And then perhaps, afterward, you could provide a practical demonstration.”I’m sorry,“What?”He hums through another few bites of the mousse. “Of your Effort and how it, as you put it, ‘goes off,’” he says. “I’ve always been a visual learner when it comes to the physical senses.”Crowley’s never been happier to have sunglasses in his life. “Are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?”“I don’t know. What do you think I’m asking you?”***Aziraphale has questions about Crowley's preferred Effort. The situation gets out of Crowley's hands quickly...and into Aziraphale's.





	One-Way Van Hire

**Author's Note:**

> these two have swallowed my heart. it's like the 1990s all over again for me, except there's LOADS more fanfiction now. we are truly hashtag blessed. cursed. whatever.
> 
> i was gonna wait until i'd written the second (and possibly third?) chapters before i posted, but fuck it, let's do this.
> 
> thanks to the lovely [ElectraRhodes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/pseuds/ElectraRhodes) for betaing and britpicking and yelling at my words to grow better! <3

Aziraphale enjoys everything life has to offer. He has always been, Crowley knows, an easier target for temptation than a Tory after tea. Still, given Aziraphale being a celestial body pledged to Excessive Loveliness, Crowley never expected such temptations to include the messiest of the flesh.

After swapping bodies, Crowley will grudgingly admit to being very wrong. There are certain wavelengths of experience the thinky bits can't hide, whether one intends to pry or no.

Lunch after isn't awkward, because food and drink and company never has been with them, but Crowley has to bite both unintentionally manifested prongs of his tongue not to bring up how, to be frank, _easy_ his angel had been while Crowley was sleeping. Maybe that was his fault, passing out for a century and leaving Aziraphale to his own devices. At least the usual getting-into-trouble hadn't included getting-into-syphilis.

He should've known something— _multiple_ somethings—had been up when Aziraphale didn't shut up about Oscar Wilde for fifty years. Crowley has a mind to go be jolly toward any trees the man may have ever come into contact with.

And, alright, fine, Crowley might be a smidge jealous. Not that his angel had fucked an Oscar, but that his angel— _his_ angel, bless it!—had fucked _anyone._ Hardly in keeping with the whole Holier Than Thou business. But no, one Mister Fell had been terribly popular at something called the Hundred Guineas Club which, as Crowley had thought before, was not a dance hall. 1

“Are you listening, dear?”

“Something something ‘I wonder if Agnes has other unpublished work to bother us with’ something.” 2

Aziraphale tuts. “I’d hoped you’d be a touch more attentive given the...the everything.”

“Can’t go changing my ways now, can I?” Crowley reaches over to tink his champagne flute against the bottle, toasting it. “Being a demon, and all.”

“I’d argue neither of us were much of anything at this juncture.” Aziraphale looks down at his lap. “Considering what angels apparently are, She Herself knows I’m not a very good one.”

Crowley remembers Gabriel, his words and the horror of Hellfire, and barely restrains from breaking the stem of his glass. “You’re more angel than the lot of ‘em.”

“I could say the same of you.”

The glass begins to splinter, but Crowley sets it right again. “Bit of nonchalant blasphemy, there.”

“Hardly. I said nothing against the Divine.”

“No, no, just questioning Her choices.” Crowley takes a sip, but doesn’t taste it. _“Perfectly_ fine. Never hurt _anyone_ to ask questions.”

Aziraphale glares at Crowley in the way he always does when he’d rather roll his eyes. “I only mean,” he says, “that you’re much nic—”

“Aziraphale.”

“Fine, _less horrid_ than, say, Sandalphon. Even Michael.”

“Mikey can’t be all bad. Miracled you a towel, after all.”

Crowley adores his quiet giggles. “Or rather, us.” Aziraphale thoughtfully selects another tea sandwich from the table, some rounded-top brioche to-do with—Crowley flicks his tongue out to smell—mayonnaise and chlorophyll. “Something of a shared experience.”

“Among several several lifetimes of shared experiences.”

The sandwich halts on the journey to Aziraphale’s mouth; it finds its way back onto his plate, though Aziraphale never quite puts it all the way down. “There are plenty of moments and truths we haven’t shared.”

A bit cryptic, but, “And more’s the pity.”

Aziraphale gently pinches the sandwich between his fingers. “I can’t say I disagree. Although I do suppose it’s given us more to talk about when we get together.”

“Except for what we don’t talk about.” Crowley tries not to sound bitter. Hell knows he’s got his own secrets.

He puts down the sandwich altogether. “I take it you experienced some of my more…” Aziraphale waves his right hand nonchalantly, searching for words. “That is to say, _indelible_ memories. Events that imprinted on my physical corporation, that sort of thing.”

The bitterness insists on introducing itself. “I just had no idea you were so fervently, physically occupied while I was napping.”

“This is hardly a discussion to be had over lunch.”

“Well you brought it up!” Crowley taps the egg timers; the tea is hopelessly oversteeped by now. “I could have been referring to—to—I reckon any number of things!”

Aziraphale notices the Woodruff mousse by his elbow, and the brioche roll will certainly face abandonment issues. “Except I _know_ you,” he says, picking up a spoon, “and that’s hardly what you meant, because we’ve spoken at length about essentially everything else.” He focuses on the parfait, humming to himself, looking for the best place to strike, as though desserts have weaknesses. 3

The teapot clears as Crowley miracles it back to the beginning of the brew. “Humans share those types of things with each other frequently. Conquests!” He fiddles with the rim of his flute; Aziraphale winces at the whine of skin against wet glass. “Just conquering each other all over the place!”

“It’s hardly war games.” Aziraphale perks up, having found the right angle of attack.

“Anyway, it’s not a big deal,” says Crowley, glasses making the eye contact he cannot. “You stayed awake; I went to sleep. You had lots of sex, and I—”

“I wouldn’t say lots.” He makes a sinful noise around his spoonful of mousse. _“Oh,_ but that’s rather good. Care for a bite?”

Crowley leans back in his chair. “Your corporation seems to think it was lots.”

“It isn’t as though I’m the only one to enjoy earthly delights, you know.” Aziraphale dips his spoon back in for a second bite. “My affairs aren’t anything compared to your orgies.”

If Crowley could lean back further, or perhaps in multiple chairs at once, he would. “Temptation and participation are hardly the same.”

The spoon stops in front of Aziraphale’s open mouth. “Surely not.”

“What?” Crowley drums his fingers on the table. All of them. Any part of the table uncovered by sweets.

“You mean you’ve never—” The loaded spoon clinks onto a plate beside a truly verdant macaron. “You’re a demon, and you—”

“I believe you were questioning the whole angel-slash-demon business a few minutes ago.”

“Have you truly never engaged in _sexual congress?”_ Aziraphale’s whisper-hiss could never rival Crowley’s, but it might give it a true slither for its scales.

“Why? Is that a problem?”

Aziraphale finds Crowley’s eyes, which is good, because if Aziraphale angles himself any farther out of his chair, he’ll fall off the side. “I only mean I’m astonished to find you a virgin. I’d never have thought.”

“Virginity is a relgio—socio—patria—whatever, it’s a rubbish concept.”

“I agree entirely.”

A champagne cork across the room takes too long to pop.

“So?”

Crowley fidgets, feeling far less calm and collected and cool and other hard-cee words than he had when they walked in. “Ssso what?”

“So are y—”

“Can’t defy gravity for too long before sssnapping out the feathers, angel.” Crowley eyes the timer, gives up, and taps the pot perfect. “What was it you ordered? Tippy-toed orthowhatsit?”

He closes his eyes, little wrinkles winking from the corners. “Assam Tippy Orthodox. It’s a blend fr—oh no, no, you’re changing the subject.”

“My bloody maidenhood isssn’t ‘zactly a teatime topic!”

A man two tables over discreetly clears his throat.

“So?”

“At risssk—” Crowley takes a moment to concentrate on restoring his tongue. “At risk of sounding repetitive,” he begins again, “so what?”

“Why haven’t you?”

Crowley pours a cup of tea. He focuses very intently on pouring the cup of tea because, if he’s focused on the tea and the cup, Crowley doesn’t have to consider all the lies he doesn’t want to use to answer. Couldn’t very well say, _I’ve never had an interest in fucking anyone but you_. Too dangerous. Worse than the Apocalypse, and it didn’t even bother happening.

He ends up with, "Never found the right time," which isn't entirely true, but true enough.

"Ah." Aziraphale glances down at the last bite of whatever soft, fluffy, sickeningly sweet thing he's been eating. If Crowley didn't know better, he'd think Aziraphale seemed...not insulted, and not disappointed, exactly, but maybe a little...well wistful didn't cover it, either. Point being, his angel has a funny look on his face that doesn't fit alongside the blush he's been sporting all through lunch in any way whatsoever.

Crowley almost asks, but then Aziraphale clears his throat, pardons himself, and changes the subject. _I wonder what Michael is telling Gabriel,_ and, _If only you'd seen Beezle's face!_ and _Milton would have certainly had an accident were he there._

"Pissed himself," Crowley says, looking into his flute, annoyed by how few bubbles still cling to the glass. He briefly considers just pouring it into his cup of tea. "Just say he would've pissed himself, angel."

_"Really."_

"Or shat. Maybe nutted, who knows."

"Here we are, dining and celebrating at The Ritz, having a splendid time, and now you're being crude."

Crowley claps his hand over his chest. "Me? Crude? I'm offended. Especially since I wasn’t the one to bring up carnal knowledge not, what? Ten minutes ago?”

“Seven-and-three-quarters,” says Aziraphale. “Give or take five seconds.”

“So how is that any better!”

Aziraphale darts his eyes back and forth across the ceiling like he always does when Crowley’s right. 4 “I suppose many coup—that is to say, many partn—oh dear.” He looks longingly at the green macaron. “Sex is a far less taboo topic than bodily functions.”

“I did mention nutting,” Crowley reminds him. “Old Milty would’ve absolutely gotten off on it. Fear kink, that one.” He takes a sip of his tea; strong, but not nearly strong enough. There’s a hint of malt, and he has no idea what to make of that, at all.

“I cannot _believe,”_ and Aziraphale is winding up into a classic pout, “that we’re discussing the hypothetical sexual preferences of a seventeenth century poet over tea.”

“Really?” Crowley finishes his champagne. “I can believe it. This is us we’re talking about.”

Aziraphale’s posture softens. “I do suppose we talk about silly things.”

“When we aren’t talking about the important ones. Which we don’t.”

“Anyway, you were the one who brought up intercourse in the first place.” Aziraphale smirks around another spoonful of mousse, only for his face to dissolve into rapture, which—as always—does all sorts of interesting things to Crowley’s insides.

He gulps his tea. “S’pose I did.”

Aziraphale changes the topic again, much to Crowley’s surprise. He prattles excitedly about all the new releases he won’t have to miss due to the unfortunate end of Earth. It’s a welcome change from antique classics, or classic antiques, or immensely boring literature Crowley will never peruse. He doesn’t know who turned Aziraphale on—oh Satan, no, bad turn of phrase, no biscuit—who made Aziraphale curious about genre fiction, but he’d like to buy them a drink or three.

People come and go around them while Crowley listens to Aziraphale, to the timbre of his voice, the lull of a charmer’s tune. He watches him nibble on cakes and pretend to have intentions of eating the sandwiches. Aziraphale’s beautiful, like this, animated and endearing and—

“That reminds me,” Aziraphale says, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. “I had a question regarding your corporation.”

“What does that have to do with intergalactic lasers?”

“Tangent, my apologies, but my question was as to why—”

Crowley frowns at the teapot, then snaps it full again. “Don’t get me wrong, dueling space wizards on elephant-supported planets sound truly...uh, interesting! Very interesting. So much interest. Interest cubed, even.”

“Crowley.”

“And the author! That hat! What a guy.” 5

“Could you please explain why you choose to manifest such a strange Effort?”

The tea sloshes over the edge of the cup. It pools in the saucer. Crowley keeps pouring.

“It’s only…” Aziraphale’s shoulders slouch. “Well I’ve never been curious about the, er, more _feminine_ anatomy.”

“Cunt,” Crowley croaks.

“Vulva,” titters Aziraphale. “You seem so masculine.”

The teacup pleads for mercy. “Not always,” he says weakly. “Slithery gender.”

“Well, I supp—”

“And men can have cunts.”

“I didn’t mean to impl—”

Somewhere, a tea ceremony morphs into a funeral. “Fits better in pants, besides.”

Aziraphale muffles his amusement. “Your pants are very tight, dear, that’s true.”

“And they’re more _fun,”_ continues Crowley, ignoring Aziraphale yanking the teapot from his steel grip. “Very versatile, cunts.” He bats Aziraphale’s hand away in lieu of snapping the mess elsewhere. Someone shrieks across the room. “Feels better when you fiddle with it. Goes off more than once.”

“I always th—”

“Cocks seem like such a hassle. Not enough bang for your miracle, that’s what I think.”

If Aziraphale’s eyelids move any faster, he’s going to strobe. “You’re a lesbian then?”

 _I don’t know,_ he wants to say, _are you a woman?_ Followed closely by, _Wait, neither of us are women, so how does sexuality even work at this point?_ And then perhaps, _Is Zirasexual even a word?_

Crowley settles for stammering out, “I jussst _am,_ angel.”

“I see.” Aziraphale picks out a scone. “It all seems rather complex.”

“What does?”

“Vulvas.”

“How so?”

Aziraphale finally looks as nervous as he damn well should. “I’m accustomed to what is traditionally referred to as male genitalia and how they operate.”

“Cocks,” says Crowley. “For the love of anyone listening, please, just say cocks.”

“The feminine orgasm seems so mysterious!” Aziraphale perks up. “Multiplicitous, you said! Yet so elusive! Ineffa—”

“You know what’s elusive?” Crowley interrupts, resisting the urge to run his hands through his hair and pull at his scalp until lunch makes sense again. “Alcohol. Copious amounts of alcohol.”

“Did we already finish the champagne?”

“Mhmm.”

Aziraphale dips into the mousse again. “I suppose we could adjourn to the bookstore after we’re through here. I haven’t even checked the shelves yet!”

Crowley summons his best Aziraphale impression. “It’s all tickety-boo.”

“And then perhaps, afterward, you could provide a practical demonstration.”

 _I’m sorry,_ “What?”

He hums through another few bites of the mousse. “Of your Effort and how it, as you put it, ‘goes off,’” he says. “I’ve always been a visual learner when it comes to the physical senses.”

Crowley’s never been happier to have sunglasses in his life. “Are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?”

“I don’t know. What do you think I’m asking you?”

“We just gave considerable assistance in saving the world,” says Crowley. “We gave Heaven and Hell the slip. There’s a bake-off in front of us, and a piano tinkling away, and the thing that makes the least sense to me is that you want me to masturbate in front of you.”

“Not here!”

“I had no intention of dropping trou at the blessed Ritz!”

A laden pause.

“But will you show me?” Aziraphale asks, voice too sweet for the slight avarice Crowley’s certain he’s imagining in his angel’s eyes.

Crowley sighs, and tells his stomach to stop flipping, and begs the heat pooling in his groin to stop doing it.

“Yeah,” he finally squeaks out, miracling the teapot full of Scotch. “Sure. Why not?”

* * *

1 Well. Not in the traditional sense. He supposes it has entirely to do with what direction one gavotted toward.

2 Little do they know that Anathema has burned the unpublished work. Little does _she_ know that one Agnes Nutter, Witch, knew Anathema would do so, and had planned accordingly. And then, of course, there’s Newton, who knows hardly anything, at all.

3 They do, of course. Weaknesses everywhere. They’re only slightly less defenseless than a newborn human, though desserts make up for it by being both silent and delicious, unlike children, who are only one of the two.

4 Now that Aziraphale’s free of Heaven’s grasp and can do and say as he pleases, Crowley expects to be right far, far less often.

5 GNU Sir Pterry.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me yelling about these ineffable assholes on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan). learn more about me [here](https://shiphitsthefan.carrd.co/).
> 
> if you like the fic, [please share it with your friends](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan/status/1153014874143780864)!
> 
> thanks for reading! kudos and comments are held close to my heart. <3


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